


the silent storm

by missroserose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Devotion, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Season/Series 03, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24982000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missroserose/pseuds/missroserose
Summary: Half the demons in Hell have been let loose.  Dean's going to die in a year.  Worse, he doesn't seem to care.Sam can't let that go.(Takes place after 3x01 "The Magnificent Seven.")
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 30
Kudos: 42





	the silent storm

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to quarantine, my family and friends have gotten me on the _Supernatural_ train. I know I've still got roughly a million episodes to go, but this setup was far too juicy to refrain from writing some angst-filled smut about. Gotta love these two and their halfway-to-dysfunctional devotion to each other.

They’re a few hours outside of Nebraska when the storm hits.

It’s not exactly been a cheerful drive. Dean’s cock-rock blaring quietly from the radio does little to alleviate Sam’s sullen silence as he stares out over the vast Midwestern plains, thoughts sinking into gloom as inevitably as the sun sinking below the horizon. He tries to wrench his concerns onto a nobler path, onto the fate of the world, how they’re going to track down the demons that were let loose when the Gates of Hell were opened—but his thoughts keep skipping the track, slithering onto a smaller and more selfish set of images entirely.

The crossroads. A deal. One year.

_Fucking Dean._

When the periwinkle twilight goes abruptly black, when the first peals of thunder roll past, when Dean pulls off at the next highway exit with a GAS • FOOD • LODGING sign next to it—Sam knows that it’s for his benefit. Knows that Dean would happily keep on driving through the summoning dark, the howling wind, the pouring rain; knows he would slice through the storm like a knife, belting out the occasional AC/DC tune to drown out the water drumming on the Impala’s roof, just to prove he could. Knows that the delay is a peace offering, of sorts.

Dean goes in to sign the motel register with another meaningless name, another anonymous credit card, another disposable identity. Sam rests his head against the Impala’s passenger-side window, grateful and resentful all at once. Grateful that his brother knows him so well, that he isn’t trying to prod Sam out of his mood. Resentful about...everything else.

They unsling their bags, unpack for the night in continued quiet; it’s been a long day, they’re tired, and that’s almost enough excuse not to talk. Sam digs out his laptop and opens it up, even though the day’s events have drained his appetite for research—it’s a reason to extend the silence, to let the string of storms (there’s never just one, not out here in plains country) wash over them. 

Eventually, Dean grabs the bathroom and a shower, comes out ready for bed. He pauses in the doorway for a moment, body language somewhere between “hesitant” and “expectant”.

Sam’s no idiot; he can sense that Dean wants to finish their earlier conversation; wants Sam to agree to his plan—no, his _surrender._ At the very least, Sam should acknowledge the festering quiet that’s taken root between them; the shadowed fingers stretching into his psyche, squeezing his heart and lungs in turn. But he doesn’t have the energy to continue the fight right now, and frankly, there’s satisfaction in letting Dean dangle.

_Stupid, selfish Dean._

Thunder cracks, breaking the moment; Dean shrugs and goes to bed. Turns down the covers and pulls them up tight. Reaches over and hits the light switch, leaving the room in darkness. Leaving Sam in darkness. Alone.

Sam surfs aimlessly for a while longer, waiting for sleepiness to come; it never really does, but the eventual exhaustion becomes too much to bear. He closes his laptop and undresses by the anemic glow of the window, storm-drenched parking lot lights filtered through chintz curtains. Down to his boxers, he crawls back into bed, determined to search out sleep.

Thunder cracks, not far away. A couple seconds later, lightning flashes. 

Sam winces.

He hates thunderstorms; hated them even when he was young. A little odd, for a kid from Kansas, maybe—but he has no memories of lying in his childhood bed, listening to the storm safe in his room, in a home that his family’s lived in more than a night or three. Sam’s storm memories are an endless string of motel rooms and squats, plasticky polyester sheets (when he was lucky enough to have them) clinging to his legs in the humid air, threatening to trap him, drag him away before his father and brother returned. Of lifting a blanket away from the dirty window to see nothing but the rain bucketing down, the crash-bang of thunder reverberating in his teeth, occasional lightning flashes overexposing the parking lot or the field beyond. Of finally giving up and going to bed, only to find himself subject to a series of half-waking dreams, visions, flash floods carrying away his father, his brother—

The only good part of thunderstorms, when he was young, was Dean. Sure, by day he’d give Sam shit about being afraid. But at night, when he and their father had returned, he’d slip into their shared bed, smelling of whatever soap the hotel kept in stock. If Sam was still awake, silently crying in terror, he’d roll over. Hold him close. And Sam would snuggle deep into the cave of Dean’s arms, and pray, selfishly, that Dean would always come back. Always be able to keep him safe.

_You were so scared they’d be taken away from you. Is that why you left them first?_

Sam pulls away from the thought, the memory—lets them suffocate under the pressure, the sheer, unrelenting _presence_ of the storm, far too overwhelming for something with no actual physical shape. Ghosts he can dispatch with rock salt and lighter fluid, demons can be exorcised; this, the heavy damp air slowly overpowering the wheezing air conditioner, making the room feel damp and close and claustrophobic—

_Dad’s gone. Dean’s going to be gone. What more do you have to be afraid of, Sam?_

—this can only be borne.

Sam’s afraid of lots of things. And, if he’s to be perfectly honest, here alone in the darkness—they include his thoughts since he...returned. They sound like his, feel like his, but sometimes they’re just a little...off. Skewed, but subtly so, like a mirror tilted just a fraction. A coffee table an inch out of place, enough to stub his toe on in the dark. 

_Stupid, selfish, fucking asshole Dean—_

Sam breathes. Counts. Forces his body to relax, the way he used to before a big test.

Breath in. Two. Three. Four. Hold. Two. Three. Four. Breath out. Two. Three. Four. Hold. Two. Three. Four. Repeat.

Gradually, he feels himself sinking. The physical tension is still there—tightly wound back and neck muscles, the headache he’s been nursing all evening from dehydration and pressure changes. His emotions are still a maelstrom, made worse by Dean’s refusal to acknowledge Sam’s distress. But Sam manages to let all of that float on the surface, as his consciousness slowly drifts downward into sleep.

Seven cycles. Eight. Nine—   
  
Thunder cracks, almost directly overhead, shattering his concentration. Highlighting, somehow, the tension in his back. The way his neck muscles are half-wrenched against the stiff pillow. The headache that pounds with renewed force against his temples.

He could almost cry, if he thought it would do any good.

_Is that what’s eating at you? Poor Sammy’s sad ‘cause his brother doesn’t care about him anymore…?_

It’s a nasty thought, and a toxic one, and it carries an uncomfortable edge of truth. Sam slips his fingers into his hair, tightens, pulls, willing the sensation to drown out the words that he already knows will follow—

 _After he literally gave up the rest of his life for you? You’re mad that you’ll have to live without him?_ He can almost hear his own chuckle, low and humorless and maybe a bit menacing. _Doesn’t that sound a little...selfish?_

And there it is. He’s no better than Dean.

Just as the thought hits, he hears a sound from the nearby bed. Or, really, becomes aware of a sound that, until now, had been drowned out by the wind and the thunder and the patter of rain blown against the window. A rhythmic rustling, a slight squelch, overlaid with heavy breath.

Dean is fucking _jerking it._ While he’s in the room. Like they’re teenagers again.

Sam’s not even certain what his intention is as he throws the covers back, all thoughts of sleep vanished. As he rolls onto his feet, taking the distance between their beds in barely three long-legged strides. As he looms over Dean on the other bed, takes in the expression on his face, satisfyingly startled in the soft light. As Dean’s mouth moves, starts to form the word Sam least wants to hear right now: _Sammy…?_

Sam drops heavily onto the bed next to his brother, puts one finger to Dean’s lips. Gazes at him, intense, savage.

Dean, for once in his life, shuts up.

_That’s better._

A breath, as they look at each other, Sam’s face a storm, Dean’s stubbornly guileless. 

Then Sam lets his finger slip southwards, over Dean’s chin, along the line of his windpipe. He’s not really tempted to slide his hand around Dean’s throat—to watch his expression as he tightens, fraction by fraction—but he’s surprised at how gratifying it is to think that he _could_. To imagine Dean’s expression, terrified, rapturous. 

Sam shivers a little at the mental image.

_How much do you trust me, Dean?_

He can feel Dean’s pulse racing beneath his fingertips, can practically hear the blood rushing through Dean’s arteries; he wonders, with both guilt and excitement, if Dean’s thoughts are running along similar lines. Gently, almost tenderly, he traces his fingers lower, to where Dean’s chest lays bare across the sheets, only the leather cord of his necklace laid over his collarbones. Lets his hand rest on the sternum, the amulet between his fingers.

Dean’s eyes flick downwards, then up to meet his once more. A slight narrowing, in...question? Challenge? Arousal?

Fear? 

Sam stops thinking. His hand moves practically of its own accord, tracing along the edge of Dean’s abs; ever closer to the place he hasn’t let himself imagine, where the Dean’s erection shows through the sheets. Waits for Dean to say something, to grab his hand, to throw a punch. Anything.

Nothing. Dean’s eyes go wide as lightning flashes, as Sam’s hand slips beneath the fabric, and Sam wonders briefly what his own face looks like right now. What Dean sees, to render him mute and helpless.

It’s not until his fingers find Dean’s cock, until the moment loses any semblance of deniability, that Dean’s lips part and he takes a breath, halfway to speech—

Thunder cracks overhead.

Sam ducks his head and takes Dean in his mouth.

Dean makes a choked sort of noise, surprise seasoned with an unmistakable note of want that makes something triumphant bloom in Sam’s chest, something liquid and hot melt deep in his hips. Dean’s length is heavy and solid against his tongue, hotel soap and musk and _Dean_ filling his nose, and he breathes out hard, curling his tongue against the frenulum. Hears Dean suck air through his teeth, the hissing sound almost lost against the most recent burst of rain.

Carefully—he’s only done this a couple of times, though he’s been assured he’s a prodigy—he wraps his lips around his teeth, moves his head forward, flattening his tongue against Dean’s shaft. Luxuriates in the tingling feeling as hesitant fingers find his hair, slowly thread against his scalp. Makes a sound deep in his throat at how _right_ it feels. 

_You’ve always belonged to me. Every bit as much as I belong to you._

Sam moves back a little, trying different things—a graze of the teeth here, a swirl of the tongue there. Pushes all the way down, groans against the press of flesh against his soft palate, before pulling back, running the tip of his tongue under the ridge. Relishes the sounds he elicits, the tension he can feel thrumming through Dean’s body—the wrong-rightness of this at war in his mind, the primal _want_ overriding it all. Sam would smile, if his mouth weren’t busy; Dean’s never been the type to deny himself pleasure before. Why start now, with so little time left? 

Why should Sam?

A heavy, panting breath. Two. Three. Fingers wind tight in Sam’s hair, a warning; Sam takes it as a promise, takes Dean as far down as he can, glancing upward. A lightning-flash limns Dean’s expression, eyes desire-dark, wide with surprise and want; Sam’s own body floods with warmth, with pleasure—he groans a little, delights in the deep-seated pulse against his tongue just before the splash hits the back of his throat, before he swallows against Dean’s head, as Dean cries out in pain-pleasure, tenses, body instinctively curling inward to protect its vulnerability.

When Dean finally melts, boneless and breathless on the bed, Sam slips off. He gives the head a little lick on his way, almost a goodbye pat—smiles to see Dean twitch, brokenly—and moves to get up. Maybe now he can sleep, satisfied—

Fingers catch at his wrist.

Lightning flashes as Dean grins.

It’s not his usual grin, overtly friendly, covertly calculating. Not even the grin of challenge, of brotherly rivalry. This grin is primal, manic, a little unhinged. Overwhelming, like the storm outside. Possessive and terrifying all at once.

Thunder cracks, and Sam’s belly floods again with something hotter than flame, his cock gone from half-mast to painfully hard in a matter of seconds.

_You might just fit right into Hell, after all._

Dean tugs him back with one hand, reaches over onto the nightstand with the other. Presses something hard and unyielding into Sam’s fingers.

The bottle of lube.

_Do you want me to follow you there?_

Sam holds Dean’s gaze as he sheds his boxers. This part is outside his experience, but the theory isn’t difficult. He squeezes some lube on his hand, strokes himself a few times; watches Dean watch him, feels that liquid _need_ grow within them both. More lube, and he moves to sit by Dean, slips one hand behind Dean’s balls, traces back. Presses.

His fingers slip inside slowly, and he glances up to see how his efforts are being received. Dean’s eyes are on him, burning with pure urgency; there’s no hesitancy, no trepidation at something new. 

_Have you been keeping secrets from me, Dean?_

Sam presses, up and in, the way he’s read about; when he sees little reaction, he slides in a little further, strokes the slick skin, finds the place that feels a little softer, spongier, presses again—

Dean sucks in a breath, tightens, as if an electric current is running from Sam’s fingers through his abs and up to his face. His lips part, eyes feral on Sam’s, and Sam understands what it was in his face that kept Dean so hypnotized, earlier.

_Have you imagined this as often as I have?_

Carefully, Sam slips his fingers out, slides forward, rests his weight onto one arm. Watches Dean’s face as he guides the head of his cock to the slick-wet spot and presses in.

Dean makes a noise that Sam knows for a fact that he’ll deny forever. Sam smiles with some fondness, and with some further wickedness, holding Dean’s eyes as he slides himself all the way home. As he completes the circuit, connecting their bodies, joining them fully. Dean’s arms slip around him, and Sam tilts his forehead forward to meet Dean’s. For a moment they pause there, eyes closed, wind and rain and breath and want, and Sam has a sudden flash of an illustration he’s seen in his research. The ouroboros, the dragon eating its own tail—

_You couldn’t do without me. Couldn’t live half a life. You really think I’d go on without you—_

Dean _squeezes._

Sam’s eyes fly open and he makes a noise, surprise and wordless want, and somehow manages to push a little _deeper,_ and the thunder cracks, and he’s pulling back, pulling back so he can drive in further, driven to see Dean’s face shift, his breath catch, his body tense. It takes a few strokes, but he finds the angle that makes Dean writhe, that pushes sounds out of him that he’d never in a thousand years have thought Dean was even capable of. Each whimper, each groan both soothes and spurs him—it’s not long before he’s fucking Dean properly, slick skin noises overpowered by the sussurrating rain, by the rumble of thunder, the wildness of the weather and the wildness of Dean bucking beneath him, the riotous torrent of their emotions mingling together—

_Mine. Fuck yes. Mine—_

Dean’s eyes are on him again.

He still shudders with each stroke, still arches beneath Sam, but his eyes are green hellfire, burning into Sam’s skin, stoking the answering blaze in his gut. Sam holds the gaze, green eyes twinned flame for flame, even as his breath turns ragged. He can feel the wave cresting, bearing down on him, but he’s damned if he’s going to look away—Dean’s legs are around his waist, pulling him in, and Sam’s gathering Dean up in his arms, protecting, shielding as he thrusts—and again—once more—

The world tumbles as the wave overtakes him, as everything in his body seems to push itself out and into Dean. Dean, who’s clinging to him, muttering half-formed obscenities. Dean, the bright light that guides Sam every day. Dean, who keeps him laughing, keeps him from sinking into the dark. Keeps him from being alone when everything goes topsy-turvy around them, _again._ Dean, who gives Sam so much of himself.

Dean, for whom Sam would give everything. Has given everything. Will give everything.

A crack of thunder in the distance, the last of the storm passing by.

When Sam comes back to himself, he’s panting and covered in sweat. Gingerly, he rolls off of Dean, flops down next to him; he lets the air conditioner wheeze its asthmatic breath onto him, as he listens to the retreating rain. As he clings to the shreds of that sense of wholeness, of rightness; hides beneath it, a child with a threadbare blanket pulled over his head.

“Hey.”

Dean’s voice is hoarse, as if he’d been screaming. Maybe he was. Sam wonders if he was so caught up in things that he missed it. He turns away, unwilling to risk seeing contempt in Dean’s eyes—or worse, that terrible apathy.

“Sam.” Dean rolls with him, slips an arm around his waist; Sam relaxes a fraction at the familiar warmth. “It’s okay if you’re scared.”

Sam says nothing, but snuggles back into Dean’s chest. He’s bigger than Dean is, now, but some of the old comfort is still there, and something loosens around his heart, shadowy fingers releasing their grip; his chest heaves once, violently, though he makes no sound.

“God dammit, Sam.” Dean’s arm tightens around him, the roughness of his voice multiplying; Sam feels Dean’s forehead pressed hot into his shoulder. “I’m scared, too. I’ve never been without you before. Not like this.”

And Sam rolls back over, looks Dean in the eyes. The eyes that he knows now he’ll march into Hell and face all its demons for. Silently, he gathers Dean in his arms, holds him as his brother's shoulders heave in their own dry-choked sobs.

_You won't be._

**Author's Note:**

> Want to yell with me about these two? Leave a comment, or come throw spoilers at me on [tumblr](http://missroserose.tumblr.com)!


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